


Anchor

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Army Doctor John Watson, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 12:50:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10412511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John is Sherlock's anchor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Casmonster1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casmonster1/gifts).



> Inspired by [this](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356517757980/) beautiful image.

John reached absentmindedly for his tea, frowning as he tipped the empty cup to his lips. It had been a long day, and now he’d had to spend his evening working on this sodding paper he’d agreed to write. Mycroft might tell people his position in the British government was minor, but it was enough to be able to pull some strings. Strings for himself, John thought sourly, replacing his empty cup. When John had mentioned doing some work for the Army again, writing a paper from a medical perspective on the impact on the British nation of possible NATO NBC defensive operations was not what he had in mind. Apart from the fact that he could barely explain what he was meant to be doing, it was so boring it made his eyelashes hurt. John had the distinct impression that his work was completely unnecessary, and that in itself pissed him off and brought out his stubborn streak. It was the kind of paper that was written, read by five people then filed away, only to be rewritten by someone else in ten years’ time. There was no way that he would not write it (Mycroft would be insufferable), but God, it was tedious.

Unfortunately for him, John had other things on his mind, and he’d just now given up on reading the previous incarnation of his paper. It lay on his desk next to his own notes about dealing with Sherlock. There had been a case recently involving a drug smuggler, and Sherlock, ever reckless, had gone undercover without telling anyone. When he had reappeared three weeks later, having evaded even Mycroft (the Homeless Network were loyal only to Sherlock), the track marks on his arms spoke volumes. Though he had solved the case, John and Mycroft had immediately put into action ‘OtterLock’, their plan for if Sherlock should start using again. There was a schedule of people to stay with Sherlock; Lestrade had gotten the drug squad to do a thorough sweep of 221b; and Mycroft had installed a raft of new surveillance. Sherlock’s arguments were all moot – as a primary resident of the flat, John had given permission for all of the above, and all Sherlock could do in the face of his stubbornness was sulk, which was fine with John. It meant he wasn’t out looking to score, at least.

John had hoped that this incident would excuse him from completing this paper, but Mycroft, offering to take the 12 hour shift today, had pointedly suggested that John go to work today and spend some time ‘brushing up the undoubtedly completed paper’. The flush that crept up his cheeks gave away his guilt, and John had no choice but to acquiesce. He’d done a shift, in the end, before trying and failing to concentrate on the most boring document known to man. _Second_ most boring, once he’d written his, of course. His attention had wandered and now he stared at the most recent entries in his own notebook. He’d made a reminder to buy more patches – the nicotine helped Sherlock through the worst of the cravings – and doodled as his mind went over the successful techniques from other danger nights. A wry smile played over his lips as he examined his work – a drawing of a set of pelvic bones, direct from his third year anatomy textbook.

As he considered going home, the door to his office opened and Sherlock walked in, calm as anything, and stood inside the door. He looked completely at home, John thought. He was, of course, meant to _be_ at home, and from his attire (one bed sheet, and probably nothing else if previous experience was anything to go on) John deduced that Mycroft did not know of his absence from Baker Street.

“Sherlock. What the hell are you doing here.” John’s voice was flat and held no questioning inflection. Most of him was not surprised to see Sherlock here at all. He waited for an answer, giving no other reaction to Sherlock’s appearance.

“Mycroft is so boring.” Sherlock muttered, then strode across the room to stand by the wall, closer to John but not looking at him. John saw a flash of red as Sherlock dropped something. He frowned, recognising the strips of white and the shade of red…

“Are those my pants you’re carrying, Sherlock?” John asked, genuinely surprised this time. He watched in amusement as Sherlock’s face coloured almost to match the pants themselves.

“Yes.” Sherlock finally answered, swooping down to pick them off the floor.

John raised one eyebrow. “Why are you carrying my pants, Sherlock?”

“No reason.” Sherlock’s voice was evasive, and this was as clear a tell as anything to John – he was trying to hide something, and it was personal. Sherlock was a superb liar when it came to cases but in his personal life, he was rubbish. John was grateful for this on an almost daily basis.

“Tell me, Sherlock.” Although John knew that Sherlock was somewhere along the path of withdrawal (clean for at least the eleven days since he had reappeared), he also knew that this patient, calm Captain Watson line of questioning would work. He waited.

Sherlock mumbled something, his scarlet face turned away from John.

“Didn’t catch that.” John remarked patiently.

“I like to have something of yours with me, John.” Sherlock spoke loudly, his embarrassment evident.

“And you chose my pants because…” John had found his heart beating faster now. Of all the things he could have chosen, Sherlock had picked John’s pants. Was it possible…

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Sherlock grumbled. He turned to face John, drawing himself up to his full height, managing to look impressive despite his unusual attire. “Having something of you around makes this easier to bear, John. Even when it was someone else’s ‘turn’ with me, you were never gone this long. I couldn’t stay at the flat any longer with Mycroft.” His voice became less defensive. “You’re my anchor, John. You tether me to the world. I had to be close to you. I forgot I had the pants there, actually.”

John swallowed at the implications of this short speech.

“And how close exactly are we talking, Sherlock?” He couldn’t believe how brazen he was being, offering this to Sherlock, but it seemed that this was the moment. John looked into Sherlock’s face, the confusion, then the frown cleared and understanding and desire and determination flooded into Sherlock’s face. He did not say a word, simply moving over to John and straddling him where he sat, still at his desk, stethoscope around his neck. John’s hands were shaking, his heart pounding as Sherlock’s weight settled on his thighs. John’s still trembling hands landed on Sherlock’s hips, partly to steady him, partly to make contact with some part of that flesh so temptingly close. Sherlock’s hand came up to cup John’s face, and John’s hand slid against Sherlock’s skin, up towards his hip and under the sheet.

“John,” breathed Sherlock, his face close now. John’s eyes had drifted closed, and he felt his name, the brush of air as intimate as he’d ever experienced. Air from inside Sherlock, released as he said John’s name, moving over John’s face, caressing him, depositing traces of DNA against his lips. John turned his face up, searching, and Sherlock obliged him, lowering his own mouth to settle against John’s. The shape was perfect, like puzzle pieces coming together, and both men shuddered with the contact. Slowly they kissed, tracing and learning each other’s shape, the textures of skin they encountered, the taste of the other lips and teeth and tongue. There was no heat, no urgency; it was relief, almost that this had come to pass, and they could enjoy each other, finally, finally. The kissing slowed until their foreheads touched, mouths barely in contact. They sat for a long moment, lips brushing, stuttering breath passed back and forth in the warm space they had created.


End file.
